


The lightning in me.

by luchia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, Character death but not really because they are already dead?, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since as far back as he can remember, Patrick Laurent has been angry.</p><p>(Reincarnation AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The lightning in me.

**Author's Note:**

> **Original prompt:** "Enjolras and Grantaire are reincarnated and find each other in modern times. Their lives, however, are drastically different from the first time around, in that Grantaire, thanks to having had a better life this time around, is rather idealistic, while Enjolras, having had it worse, has grown somewhat cynical.
> 
> So, basically, yes, I want a role-reversal reincarnation AU."
> 
>  
> 
> This deviated from the prompt significantly while I plotted and wrote it. Roles are definitely reversed, but it’s not their upbringings that changed them.

Ever since as far back as he can remember, dreams of blood and fear have haunted his sleep. He dreams of watching everything he loves die behind a massive wall he can’t see over, dreams of feeling his heart crushed by bullets and bayonets.

It’s through his skin, through his bones, planted marrow-deep, planted in genetic coding like an incurable disease.

Ever since as far back as he can remember, Patrick Laurent has been angry.

+

“I’m not asking you to believe, I’m just asking you to come to the meeting,” Luc says, all wide earnest eyes and hopeful smile because he knows there’s no other tactic that could possibly drag Patrick to his fucking social justice meeting.

“My morning’s all booked up,” Patrick says. “With sleep.”

Luc looks him very firmly in the ear because Patrick buries back down into his bed. Getting up before 10 is indecent on a Saturday and Luc and his friends should all feel ashamed of themselves. “If you don’t come, I’m going to stage an intervention. You can’t just stay holed up in the apartment every single minute you aren’t in class – and you _really need to go to class_ , Patrick.”

“There are better uses of my time,” Patrick says, and tosses his duvet over his head in the not-quite-desperate hope Luc will just turn around and leave him to his pillow.

His best friend makes an impossibly exasperated noise, says, “You are such a little shit,” and yanks every bit of warmth and coziness off of Patrick with a quick grip on his poor, poor bedding. “Get out of bed!”

“No,” Patrick whines. Luc didn’t take his pillow. He can still curl around his pillow.

“I swear to god I’ll go get a bucket of water,” Luc says, and when Patrick finally twists his head to glare at his friend his eyes are exposed to the daylight and it _burns_. “Hey, come on. It won’t be _completely_ painful. Alain will be there!”

Patrick can’t help but twist away from the pillow at that, frowning. “Really? Doesn’t he have a thing on Saturday mornings?”

“Yes,” Luc says dryly. “This is the thing he has. Now come on, I know you miss him, up you get. All you have to do is sit in the corner and wait until it’s over and then you and Alain can drive everyone crazy.”

Luc should’ve started with this information. If he had, there might have been less torture involved. “Fine,” Patrick says, rolls off of his mattress, and dodges an irritatingly gleeful Luc on the way to the bathroom.

When he’s showered and dressed, Luc looks even more excited, which is kind of concerning. Lucien Pelissier is not someone whose smile you should trust. Not that Patrick trusts many people, but Luc is on that very short list (it has the names of exactly two people – Luc and Alain) so he just exercises caution on the walk to a café called the Musain. Patrick’s never been there, in spite of how Luc rhapsodizes about their coffee. Which Patrick doesn’t even drink in the first place.

Somehow, the layout is familiar when he walks in and follows Luc to the corner where people are already gathering, mostly young men around Patrick and Luc’s age, early twenties or so. They greet Luc with a load of hellos and well wishes and more than a few hugs, and Patrick hangs back awkwardly, watching the friends and realizing how much of a mistake this is. Even seeing Alain isn’t worth this. He’s going to be stuck here listening to enthusiastic fools scream at like-minded people about changing the world and he’s going to be sitting awkward and alone in the corner.

Patrick is slinking backwards, maybe thinking of leaving the café entirely, when a warm hand touches his shoulder. Patrick _jumps_ , honestly jumps and twirls around frantically to see who touched him and then feels like a complete fool because it’s a brown-skinned woman smiling at him and looking more than a little amused. “Nice to meet you too,” she says dryly, but the smile is genuine. “My name’s Vivienne, and I’m guessing you’re Patrick. Luc and Alain have been trying to get you to come to a meeting for ages.”

“It sure felt that way,” Patrick says, and knows he’s probably a horrific shade of red right now, but Vivienne seems to be the kind sort who just politely ignores it. He clears his throat. “You’re a member of their ridiculous club?”

“In a way,” Vivienne says, which is one of the least helpful answers he’s ever been given in his entire life, which is saying something when you’re studying philosophy. She grins. “I’ve been encouraging them too, after all I’ve heard. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Patrick doesn’t like enigmatic people. They have a habit of being enigmatic.

“Anyway, our fearless leader should be here soon, you should go find a seat before people start trickling over,” Vivienne says, which makes no sense until Vivienne adds, “People end up wandering over when Rene starts talking.”

“Ah,” Patrick says. Vivienne gives him an expectant raise of her eyebrows, and right, he turns around and finds that Luc has already staked out a table for him, complete with a cup of tea with the perfect amount of honey in it.

“Really, thank you for coming,” Luc says, and he’s grinning. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

Patrick’s brain is slowly, slowly starting to pick up on the fact they don’t seem all that keen on converting him. And they gave him a very good view. And Luc had been particularly gleeful about getting him here.

Patrick is on his feet with a fist full of Luc’s shirt and towering over him before he even finishes the thought. “Lucien I fucking swear to _God_ if you are trying to set me up with someone-”

Luc raises his hands, trying to calm Patrick down so he doesn’t strangle him. “No setting up, I swear, does this look like setting up, no it doesn’t, you can just – just _look at him_ , okay? He’s at least eye candy for you, I promise, and-”

“I’m going to cut your throat in your sleep and bury your body in a way that makes it look like your mother did it,” Patrick hisses out.

“Oh wow, you’re _really_ angry,” Luc says, stunned, and tries to twist away but Patrick is having none of that, he just grips his deceitful lying best friend’s shirt and shoulders hard enough to hurt him. Almost. “Okay, Alain, please save my life, I’m pretty sure he’s only slightly joking-”

“Or we can all just calm down and you can apologize for manipulating your roommate,” a new voice says, casual and amused, and it pokes at something in Patrick’s brain. And also the _oh, that’s a nice voice_ button.

He knows it’s Rene because Rene is pretty much everything he finds attractive and even _worse_ is that Patrick can see the hint of a tattoo on his collarbone beneath his nice loose shirt and God, there will be no living with Luc after this.

But Alain saves him, putting a hand on Patrick’s arm and pulling Luc away. Patrick ends up grinning at him and doesn’t give him a chance to scold either one of them, he just scoops Alain up into a tight hug that’s immediately returned.

“I was starting to think something went horribly wrong in one of your labs,” Patrick says.

Alain pulls away to grin at him and say, “No stray scalpels or flesh-eating bacterium quite yet, I’m happy to say. What are you doing with your life?”

“Not a damn thing,” Patrick says.

He releases Patrick, but doesn’t stop smiling, pressing his forehead against Patrick’s for a moment before saying, “We’ll catch up after the meeting. I have an hour for lunch, and then I’m back on duty.”

“And you really want to do this for the rest of your life?” Patrick can’t help but ask.

Alain shrugs. “Someone has to,” he says, which is a lie, but Alain doesn’t think of it like that. He thinks helping the unfortunate and downtrodden of the world is a _duty_ , and one he’s happy to carry out even if he’s also in medical school and has a part-time job and gets five hours of sleep daily at the most, including on weekends. Patrick hasn’t seen him in what seems like months.

Alain moves to sit at what is probably his regular seat, close to the window at the front of the room. Luc already wisely skittered away, not quite hiding behind some of the other members, which leaves Patrick standing awkwardly in the corner with Rene the fearless leader of the optimist club standing on the other side of the table. His head is tilted slightly, like he’s trying to figure something out, but he doubts it’s Patrick-related.

“You and Alain,” Rene begins, and oh, yes, that makes sense. 

Patrick is always happy to talk about Alain, so he says, “We’re proof that love and romance don’t always go together.” He’s tempted to say _he’s like a brother to me_ but it’d be a vaguely incestuous brother since they dated for three months before they finally figured out those aren’t the same thing, so this will do. And he has no idea why he feels the need to even answer Rene. Probably because of the strange sense of comfortable authority the man wears, like he’s that rare possessor of confidence and actual competency.

“If it makes you feel any better, they’ve been trying to get me to invade your apartment,” Rene offers after a moment. He finishes with a small smile that is just going to completely destroy Patrick if it keeps up. Thankfully, Rene looks away, clears his throat, and turns back to his congregation. Patrick has to be imagining the light blush on his cheeks because otherwise Luc is going to be insufferable forever. And if the way Alain is glancing over is any sort of indicator, he’ll be just as bad to deal with.

It doesn’t take long for the actual meeting to start, or what there is of a meeting at least. Mostly it’s full of plans and minutiae, and then Rene starts talking. Preaching is more accurate, standing in front of a group that grows larger and larger as he creates an image of what the world _could be_ , of the potential in humanity, of the ways they can try to help humanity see its true potential and rise up to be the best of them all, and Patrick fucking _laughs_.

He doesn’t mean to do it, of course. He was doing just fine sitting in the back and watching Rene weave naïve fairytales about how everyone has a secret saint buried deep inside of them until Rene smiled, eyes shining bright, and said, “We just have to make people find the courage to stand up and help others.”

Rene blinks, stops carving the air into some sort of almost-reachable ridiculous utopia, and turns to frown at Patrick. “Is there something funny?”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just laughed because there are a million things wrong with that,” Patrick says.

He honestly thinks that’ll be the end of it. He thinks it’ll move from Patrick’s disdainful attitude with a frown or glare or some simple comment that cuts Patrick down. Instead, Rene says, “With what? The belief that someone can make a difference?”

“God no,” Patrick says. He could pick on that one too, but he doesn’t _believe_ it. What he believes is that Rene is blindly optimistic. “It’s mostly the idea that people are inherently altruistic. I mean, if people were inherently altruistic, there wouldn’t be any problems to begin with.”

“It’s not about altruism, it’s about doing what’s _right_ ,” Rene says.

“And who judges that? It’s not like there’s some universal code of laws or definition of right and wrong,” Patrick says, and glances over to Luc’s seat, but he isn’t there. Instead, Patrick ends up looking at Vivienne and another member of the central congregation whispering to each other, looking like this tiny disagreement with Rene is world-shattering. But then Patrick focuses on the part that really gets to him, the part that infuriates him, the part that has his hands clenching into fists that he stuffs into his pockets. “Okay, assuming for a moment that there are some things everyone knows are right and wrong, you’re forgetting the _doing_ part of this. Knowing the right thing doesn’t mean they’re going to do it.”

Rene nods. Patrick expected him to be angry, or annoyed, or _something_. Instead, he’s smiling, and nods, like he’s conceding the point to Patrick. “That’s the entire point of this organization,” Rene says. “We’re dedicated to helping the people find the courage to rise up and do what’s right.”

“They won’t.” Patrick feels like something just snapped apart in his brain. He has to fight the urge to punch something, to _hurt_ something, and says, “The people won’t fucking rise up, they’ll never rise up, humanity is nothing but pathetic self-preservation and no matter what anyone says or does people will never change, people will _never_ rise-”

“I did,” Rene says. His smile is gone now, and Patrick is probably ripping the lining out of his coat’s pockets. He glances away from Rene, eyes again catching on Vivienne and her friend as they stare at Patrick.

His head hurts.

His heart hurts.

He needs to go to a store and break plates until they get security to throw him out. He needs to scream. He needs to _not be here_ , and he looks around the room and for a moment it twists, shifts, becomes something much more dangerous and dark and bloody and he’s completely helpless and completely _furious_ because it shouldn’t have gone like this it shouldn’t have happened like this and then he sees him, he _sees him_ -

“I’ve got him,” someone shouts, and he falls against someone, into their arms. He doesn’t recognize them, except he does. But he looks into the wary eyes that glance from hair to face to finally look intently into his eyes. “…Patrick?”

He’s fine. He’s _fine_. Furious, but fine. Patrick shoves away from the surprised young man (probably his own age) and stumbles away. It’s Vivienne’s co-conspirator, reaching out a hand that Patrick doesn’t want to touch.

Luc sweeps in, Alain not far behind. Alain immediately checks his pupils, and Luc knows better than to crowd him, knows better than to touch him, so he quickly smoothes things over with the group, apologizes to Vivienne’s friend as Alain starts taking his pulse and asks him sharply, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says, and he wants to push Alain away from him, needs to scream, needs to _hurt someone_. But it’s Alain, who has one hand against Patrick’s neck and is intently counting down as he watches his watch, and it’s Luc barely restraining himself from a hug, and, Patrick notices suddenly, it’s Rene, too. He’s perched on top of a table, like he’d been ready to leap off, like he’d been literally hurtling his way across the room before Vivienne’s friend caught him.

As Patrick gapes at Rene, Alain makes an amused noise. Rene blushes so brightly he looks a bit like a cartoon devil, shifting down from the table in an elegant twist, even if he looks awkward enough to spontaneously combust. It is quite possibly the most adorable thing Patrick has ever seen.

“Okay, I’m going home,” Patrick says.

“You shouldn’t go on your own,” Alain says, and for a horrible anxiety-inducing moment Patrick thinks they’re going to say _Rene can walk you home_.

Alain doesn’t have time, though.

“I’ll take him,” Vivienne’s co-conspirator, the one who caught Patrick, says. “I’m going that way anyway, I have to go see if we can use a lecture hall for next week. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to hear anything I haven’t heard before.”

There’s good-natured laughter, and it seems to be the end of the issue for almost the entire group. Luc and Alain (and a surreptitious Rene) don’t immediately take the offer. 

“If you want to go, I’ll go with you, you didn’t want to come in the first place,” Luc says simply, and smiles. “Really, it’s fine-”

“No. Stay and do your…whatever,” Patrick says firmly, and it makes Luc snicker, but he nods. Alain doesn’t even need that. Patrick and the conspirator are out the door in less than a minute, and Patrick doesn’t look backwards, even if he thinks he can hear a halting attempt at someone ( _Rene_ ) calling his name.

Patrick runs a hand through his hair and takes a calming breath.

“I’m going to be fine, you’re just here to make Luc feel better and make sure I don’t have a panic attack while crossing a street,” Patrick tells him, not unkindly. He looks at the man, from his horrible plaid pants to his striped shirt. He’s probably colorblind. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Right, of course, I’m sorry,” the man says, overly excited at the prospect of introductions. “I’m Jean Prouvaire. Call me Jehan. I’m a poet.”

Jehan holds a hand out for a handshake and _ugh_. Enjolras can’t bring himself to do it right now, but he has to do _something_ , so he balls his hand into a fist and lightly taps the top of his hand.

“Patrick Laurent,” he offers, and has to immediately stuff his hand back into his coat and fights to keep a grimace off of his face.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, do you – well,” Jehan says, and a strange look comes across his face. “It’s rude, but can I ask why you don’t like shaking hands?”

Patrick sighs, but nods. “It’s just worse after a panic attack,” he says.

“I understand,” Jehan says, almost as if he really does. There’s curiosity to it, though, as if he’s wondered about this for years instead of for the few minutes since they met. “Does it just sometimes feel like your hand isn’t yours? I mean, like it shouldn’t be there?” When Patrick frowns at him, Jehan shrugs. “I have something like that.”

“No, it just feels, I don’t know,” Patrick says. “It feels like touching is _wrong_ , or it’s the wrong touch, or something. Like I don’t want it. And don’t think it’s trauma or something, I’ve always had this. Alain says I’m just touch-sensitive but it doesn’t – Jehan?”

Jehan is standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at Patrick and looking very close to tears. Except, Patrick realizes, he’s not just close, he’s _actually crying_. It’s a quiet cry, and the fact he’s trying to smile at Patrick makes it even worse. “No, no, I’m fine, I’m just very very sorry that you’re touch-sensitive and I hope it doesn’t bother you too much,” he says.

Patrick has no idea what to say, so he settles for, “Thank you?”

Jehan quickly wipes at his eyes and his smile is blatantly fake, but he’s following quickly enough. The walk is silent until they reach Luc’s apartment, and Jehan says, “Come to another meeting.”

Patrick grimaces.

“Promise me you’ll come to another meeting, Patrick,” Jehan says firmly.

“I promise,” Patrick says.

“See you soon, then!” Jehan says, and grins.

The grin Jehan shoots him is dazzling, and Patrick feels an unprompted burst of affection and a sense of friendship so old and deep that he doesn’t even know what he’s doing before he sweeps the shorter man into a bone-crushing hug. “It’s been so good to see you, Jehan,” he says.

Jehan doesn’t hug back, or laugh, or do anything _normal_. He immediately plants a hand on either side of Patrick’s face, staring intently into his eyes, and desperately whispers, “Ami?”

_Friend?_

“I guess?” Patrick says, and it’s just as fast that Jehan draws away, laughing awkwardly.

“Right. Sorry. But I’ll see you soon, you promised,” Jehan says, and leaves.

Patrick should do homework for one of the many classes he’s not actually going to. Or keep looking for a job. Or just any sort of income. Or do something productive.

Instead, he strips down, tosses his bedding over him, and curls back around his pillow.

\---

Patrick is as good as his word. He arrives at the next meeting he can bring himself to brave, which is nearly two weeks later.

And for two weeks, everything’s fine. Patrick sits awkwardly in the corner until he can’t help himself but tell Rene he needs to stop spouting nonsense and they end up ripping into each other and Patrick goes home early with Jehan calling out _come back next meeting!_ along with the time and date and place, and somehow Patrick always does come back. Alain is rarely there, but Luc always is, and so is Rene, and Patrick is developing a really humiliatingly big crush on him.

But Patrick becomes one of them, somehow. They welcome him into the fold, and start to invite him out for things as a friend instead of a fellow idealistic idiot. He never goes, of course, but they still invite him.

He doesn’t show up until Jehan is infuriatingly crafty and, with the same _come back next meeting!_ farewell he’s been giving Patrick for the past month and a half, he gives Patrick the time and place of their next friendly gathering.

It’s a bar called the Corinthe, which Jehan’s grandfather founded, and just like every other place the friends bring him, it feels strangely familiar.

Jehan and Vivienne nearly break things when they try to get through the bar to carefully not touch him while they say hello.

Word has clearly gotten around about that, after all this time. It isn’t obvious during meetings, where they all have their own designated spaces in the coffee shop. Patrick has his seat with a view and a cup of tea and brings folders of sources in his ratty old backpack for when Rene gets particularly sarcastic and biting and demands them in that drawling _oh you think so, huh?_ tone he gets when Patrick is starting to get to him. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as physically throwing a twenty page paper onto Rene’s table mid-argument.

But those are meetings. And this is a bar, where they’re all clustered together with loud conversations and shitty lighting and the inevitable press of humanity that comes along with a place like this. They’re all good about it, nobody touches him, and they politely keep other people from even brushing his side. It’s a flawless, sweetly annoying defense.

The only person who has to actually correct their actions is Rene, who, unlike Vivienne and Jehan, _did_ break something when Patrick walked in. It’s a glass of water, thankfully, because Rene doesn’t drink. It’s the only thing that saves his shirt.

It happens during an awkward conversation with them both trying to not argue, which turned into a passionate near-shouting debate sprawling across every discipline and era and had Patrick’s mind spinning gloriously. It’s even better than meetings, it’s _so_ much better. They’re not-quite-insulting each other, and Patrick is trying to explain why Rene is disgustingly optimistic and Rene is trying to explain why Patrick is a jaded asshole when Rene reaches towards his shoulder, and then pulls back. 

Patrick _wants_ him to reach, so he shakes his head and says, “It’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Rene says. “I just didn’t think.”

“That’s not what I – fine,” Patrick says, and does it for him. He sets one of his hands on Rene’s shoulders instead of vice versa.

And it’s fine.

It’s _perfect_.

He can feel the luxury fabric of Rene’s shirt, can feel the heat of his skin through it, can feel the hints of where bone is beneath muscle, can feel the way Rene tenses beneath his palm. He tenses even more when Patrick keeps staring at him.

“Okay, I’m trying very hard to not ask you out on a date,” Rene says suddenly.

“God, I know. They’d be insufferable for eternity,” Patrick says.

“They really would. But getting coffee together doesn’t count as a date though, does it?” Rene asks. “Do you think coffee counts?”

“It absolutely doesn’t, I can be free whenever you want. Really. Name a time and place,” Patrick says. Which is a really really bad idea, he is probably coming on _way_ too strong, they haven’t even really been _friendly_ to say the least. Rene smiles like Patrick’s given him the moon, though, so he obviously disagrees.

“Well. Do you – not Starbucks, I’m boycotting Starbucks,” Rene says.

“Of course you are,” Patrick says, and finally pulls his hand back, stuffing it back into his pocket and probably blushing bright red.

“Shut up, you, I already know your secret,” Rene says.

Patrick smiles. “Oh?”

“You don’t even drink coffee,” Rene says. It’s soft and smug and he dares to poke Patrick lightly in the chest. But Rene drops it almost immediately, both the finger and the topic. “Right, so. Would tomorrow morning seem too eager, do you think?”

“Definitely, if it was a date,” Patrick says.

“Lucky us,” Rene says, and the minute they have plans to meet late afternoon tomorrow Patrick has to excuse himself and spontaneously combust in front of a maniacally-laughing Luc.

Obviously, the calling-it-coffee plan has failed.

Patrick doesn’t actually mind.

\---

Patrick puts way too much thought to his clothes and his hair and brushing his teeth and flossing his teeth and eats _half_ of a breakfast, so if they go to breakfast he won’t be completely bloated and he doesn’t worry about this shit, he really doesn’t. But he _really_ likes Rene and it’s humiliating to see Luc grinning into his cereal.

“Oh fuck you too,” Patrick mutters, and he hates his wardrobe because it’s all cheap and it’s all cast-offs and birthday presents. Still, he ends up turning to Luc, goofy smile and all. “Okay. Okay. How do I look?”

“I’m pretty sure you could walk in wearing a beach ball and he’d still want to _get coffee_ with you. I hear that’s what the kids call it these days,” Luc says.

“Jesus, just give me a straight answer, okay?” Patrick says, and does not start pacing. He’s just rocking from foot to foot. No pacing whatsoever. “I knew I should’ve gone with the green, this is too casual, isn’t it?”

“You look great, Patrick, I promise,” Luc says, affectionate and sincere, and Patrick nods and doesn’t let himself look in the mirror again. He walks out and heads for his getting coffee with Rene. Because it’s just coffee, coffee isn’t anything like a commitment or a _statement_ , it’s just coffee. Patrick can do coffee.

Okay, to be honest, Patrick can barely do flirting. He can _argue_ , and somehow those two things seem to be the same with Rene because he’s just so impossibly wrong about _everything_ , all optimism and sunny skies. Worst of all is the fact he knows it isn’t naïveté that has him like this. _Something_ does, but it’s not blindness to reality. It’s like he just tries to see good in places where Patrick is very, very certain there isn’t any and never will.

People are lazy, and selfish, and _cowards_ , and care about nothing beyond the well-being of themselves and those close to them.

But Patrick isn’t going to argue or do anything but, fuck, what do boys like? Is he supposed to be doing something? He walks into the coffee shop and suddenly realizes how fucking stupid he is for doing this, it always ends badly, Patrick has never dated anyone for more than a week because it always felt _wrong_. And Patrick might be attractive but Rene is hot and smart and witty and caring and-

“Deep breaths, Patrick,” Vivienne says, out of nowhere, and Patrick jerks away. He hadn’t even realized he was at the counter, and Vivienne is there, smiling and fondly amused.

Patrick frowns. “This isn’t the Musain.”

“I switched shifts with another barista. We local coffee shop baristas have a secret fraternity, help each other out,” she says, smiling. “Tea?”

“Please,” Patrick says. Rene isn’t here yet, which is reasonable since Patrick is fifteen minutes early, and Vivienne is a saint, she doesn’t comment on how Patrick’s fingers are drumming on the counter. She dumps far too much sugar into his tea, just how he likes it, even gives him a sprig of mint in it despite the fact she thinks it’s very wrong and offensive to tea. He clears his throat. “So. What do I do now.”

Vivienne really is a saint, she really is, because she points to a table in front of the large window, where he’ll have a good view of the door. “Now you wait. Patiently. Because you’re still ten minutes early, and Rene’s usually late to everything.”

Which is very true and logical and Patrick sits down at the table Vivienne pointed him towards.

He’s barely put his tea down on the table before Rene comes through the door, nine minutes early and impossibly attractive and looking through the shop for barely a second before his eyes catch on Patrick. And he _smiles_ , like he’s surprised and thrilled to see him, and Patrick is very glad he was already in the process of sitting down.

It takes Rene no time at all to get to the table, and Patrick is so grateful for the fact he can poker face with the best of them. He’s probably blushing but at least he doesn’t look as frazzled as he feels, just takes a sip of tea while Rene elegantly slides himself into the table’s second seat.

“Thanks for coming,” Rene says sincerely, like he didn’t think it was a sure thing. Which it really, really was. He looks from Patrick to the tea and then back at Vivienne, busy behind the counter. He frowns. “Wait, what’s she doing here?”

“Called to duty by the fellowship of the independent Parisian barista, apparently,” Patrick says, and keeps a tight grip on his tea because he has no idea what to do with his hands. What does he say? What does he do? He _really_ likes Rene. “How was your morning?”

“I don’t think I should give you an honest answer to that,” Rene says. “But, okay, here’s something weird that happened. Jehan ambushes me on my way here, and he tells me _if anything strange happens, call me_. I ask what he’s talking about, but he did that enigmatic thing where he’s all _you’ll know when you know_.”

Patrick laughs, and since they’re exchanging Jehan stories, he leans forward and says, “He’s a good person, but sometimes I’m not sure he’s always _here_ , you know?”

“Poets are a special sort. But if he’s not all here, where’s the rest of him?” Rene asks, smiling, and leans right back. “Honestly, I think he might be a medium, or some other type of psychic. He can predict things, sometimes knows things he shouldn’t.”

“Like what?” Patrick asks.

Before Rene can answer, Vivienne appears, sliding smoothly between them, and Patrick is _furious_ for one strange irrational moment, catches himself and holds onto his tea while she puts a cup of coffee in front of Rene.

“You’re an angel, Vivienne,” Rene tells her, and Patrick is probably sulking like a five year old, but Rene doesn’t seem to notice, thank god. He gets over himself in time to look normal(ish) when Rene looks back at him. Rene clears his throat. “Right. Enough about Jean Prouvaire. I know pretty much nothing about your life other than that you have an amazing temper and probably the most fascinating mind I’ve ever known, so, what do you do when you aren’t trying to undermine the cause?”

Patrick blushes _again_. He hesitates, and thinks about lying, but he feels like he can be _honest_ with Rene, like he’ll just absorb the information and move along, so he admits, “Not much. I should be going to class and doing homework and being a good student, but I don’t. Being around people has never really worked out well for me.”

“Because of the touch thing?” Rene asks, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

“Partly,” Patrick says. “But I just. I get _angry_ , for the tiniest reason, sometimes for no reason at all, and – fuck, you don’t want to hear this-”

“Yes I do,” Rene says firmly. “I really really do. I want to hear _everything_. I want to sit here and listen to you read the entire phone book.”

Patrick stares at him.

It takes a moment, but Rene covers his face with his hands. “Oh _god_ , I’m so sorry, that was way too much, I haven’t been on a serious date in a really – not that this is a date,” he says quickly.

“What’s a _serious_ date?” Patrick asks, because Rene is just so cute Patrick is going to start making really embarrassing noises.

“Let’s just ignore that,” Rene says, and drops his forehead to the tabletop. He groans. “Can we pretend I’m suave and charming and just completely sweeping you off your feet or something?”

“Fuck no, this is amazing,” Patrick says. “God, do you have little hearts with our initials in them scribbled on your papers? _Mr. Rene Laurent_ written in big red letters?”

“You’re just naturally merciless, aren’t you,” Rene mutters.

Patrick laughs and kicks him lightly beneath the table, grinning. “Maybe a little bit, yeah. Hmm. Did you name our children?”

“That’s a joint decision, thank you very much, I would _never_ presume,” Rene says, and he raises his head from the table-

( _he raises his head from the table_ )

-to smile at him. Rene kicks back, light and teasing.

He tries to shake off whatever the fuck _that_ was. Patrick is dazed. He tells himself he’s okay, but Rene notices, frowning in concern and leaning forward, barely restraining himself from touching. “Patrick? Are you alright?”

Patrick has to close his eyes and take deep breaths and remind himself that screaming at his own fucked up brain will do no good, and neither will breaking the mug his tea is innocently resting inside of.

“One of the other reasons I don’t do much,” Patrick admits, and rubs at his temples. “I don’t even know what causes them, they just – it’s a flash of _something_ and then I want to rip something apart with my bare hands but no matter what I do it doesn’t feel better.”

“That’s not fun,” Rene says.

Patrick laughs, and then winces, tries to cut it off when he hears the jagged edges to it. “I’m kind of fucked up,” he admits.

“Sure, but only _kind of_ , so I’m not too worried,” Rene says, and somehow it’s the sweetest and most reassuring thing Patrick has ever heard in his entire life. Rene looks like he’s concerned, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He just lets Patrick deal with it, on his own.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Patrick says, because that’s polite.

“ _Oh_ ,” Rene says, breathes it out with a stunned expression.

The table between them is small enough that Patrick just has to scoot up and lean forward to meet Rene’s lips, and it’s just pressing their lips together, that’s all it is, soft beautiful pressure between them. He means for it to be short, but Rene makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and whimper and it’s short and tight and fascinating. It’s a simple movement of lips, just brushing against each other, and it’s amazing.

This isn’t what kissing usually feels like for Patrick, because he _wants_ , in a way he can’t remember feeling before. It’s some sort of pure spark of pleasure, some tingling that he doesn’t even have and focus on because Rene is touching him and he loves it. It’s sensitive in the best ways. It’s sensitive in the way that he wants to feel every single breath against his lips, and his eyes are closed so he can feel it in a way he’s never, ever wanted to before.

It’s Rene that pulls back, and that’s fine, that’s perfectly fine, except when Patrick opens his eyes, Rene is crying.

Thankfully, they both look just as stunned and a little bit weirded out by this.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Rene says hurriedly, and grabs a couple of napkins from the dispenser on the table to wipe away the tears. “I have no idea – I’m really happy, I don’t know what happened to make my tear ducts explode like this. It’s just like, I don’t know, I just got hit in the heart with a sledgehammer of needing to cry.”

“Maybe this is the weird thing Jehan was talking about?” Patrick offers, and brushes a tear off of Rene’s baffled cheek, because he likes touching Rene.

But apparently, that just makes it worse, because Rene starts _actually_ crying, not just tears. He starts getting the hitched breathing, the blotchy skin, and says, “Fuck, this is going down as the worst first kiss ever. I swear to god I’m happy, I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Patrick says, and tries to remember how to calm someone down. Except Rene _is_ calm. Fuck. “Do you think you’re going to start hyperventilating? Do I need to get a bag or something or-”

And then Vivienne sweeps in, wrapping her arms tight around Rene and squeezing. “It’s okay, R,” she says, and pets him on the head, and Patrick is definitely not jealous. “It’s okay, you’re good, it’s okay, R. It’s okay.”

“This is so fucking embarrassing, I don’t even know what’s happening to me,” Rene sobs out, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Or as up as he can get with Vivienne hugging him this tightly and looking like _she’s_ going to start crying too.

“Maybe we should postpone coffee?” Patrick offers awkwardly.

Rene laughs, which sounds really gross while he’s sobbing like this. “That might be good,” he manages to say, and Vivienne is rocking him, even though really, from what Patrick can see, it’s just some hormone thing. Maybe.

Still, Patrick pulls out a pen and another napkin, and writes his rarely-used phone number on it. “Don’t cry on this one,” he says, and turns it to face Rene, who lights up like a bonfire, tears and all. In fact, the crying gets even worse. Patrick just sighs. “I don’t have texting or anything, my phone just calls people, so call me when you want to rain check.” 

He stands up, and Patrick doesn’t _want_ to leave, but it seems like everything he does just makes it worse. So, he doesn’t put his pen away just yet. While Rene is doing more eye-closed crying, Patrick sneaks a couple of lines onto the napkin.

 _You’re the first person I’ve ever closed my eyes while kissing_ , he writes, because it _means something_ , and it’s probably terrible grammar but it’s hurried and probably barely even legible and Vivienne’s too busy looking completely torn up about the situation to have even noticed it. Which definitely works for Patrick.

His walk back is very quick and he can’t even try to process what just happened.

When he walks through the door, Luc is completely stunned to see him. “You – I promise he’s going to show up, he’ll get there or die trying, Patrick, I am not even joking. He’s just running really really late or something, you know how Rene is-”

“He was there,” Patrick says, and groans, rubbing at his temples. “Fuck, that was a disaster.”

“Are you shitting me? You two are so – _argh_. Okay. What exactly is this disaster?” Luc asks, like he’s about to have to smack some sense into Patrick.

“We kissed-”

“Not a disaster!” Luc says immediately.

“-and then he starts _sobbing_ , like, really really ugly crying for no reason and he’s apologizing and he doesn’t know why he’s crying either and I’m trying to help and then Vivienne jumps in to do soothing shit that I can’t and I just – he was _still_ crying when I left. I don’t even know what happened but it was a disaster, Luc, I don’t know what your definition of disaster is but bursting into tears after your first kiss seems like a pretty definite one,” Patrick says, getting closer and closer to actually shouting.

Luc just stands there, looking (justifiably) stunned. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and ah yes, there it is, the ever-present anger rears its head. He grabs the nearest hard surface and clenches his hands around it.

“That might actually beat my worst first date,” Luc says.

Patrick goes into his room, slams the door shut, and goes back to bed.

After only god knows how much time, there’s a knock on his door. Patrick almost doesn’t answer it, but he sighs, because there’s no lock. “Come in,” he says instead.

It’s Alain, and the flood of _relief_ at seeing him makes Patrick grateful that he’s already laying down.

“I heard about the date,” Alain says.

“You’re supposed to be off doctoring,” Patrick says, but he’s not going to say no to this. He holds out a hand, and Alain takes it.

There are people in the world that he has no problem touching, like Alain and, to an extent, Luc. They are _very_ rare. _Wanting_ to touch someone, like with Rene, is very new. But this he knows and, secretly, knows he needs.

Alain takes his hand, and climbs into bed with Patrick, curls around him and plays with his hair just a bit.

“I really really liked him,” Patrick says, like it’s some sort of confession.

“This was just some strange chemical imbalance,” Alain says. “Emotions can trigger some very weird shit, Patrick, it’ll all be fine.”

Patrick wants to argue, or get _angry_ , but instead he just curls up with Alain and shuts his eyes and falls back to sleep, because that’s all he really seems good for.

\---

Patrick shouldn’t be this bothered. He _knows_ he shouldn’t, knows it makes absolutely no sense – it was nice until the crying, that was definitely good. It was _wonderful_ , and that’s what makes the fact Rene started crying after they kissed even worse, because he imagines what it’d be like to just smile and flirt and never touch, and it hurts. Usually, he’d want to break something, find a punching bag or just destroy something, take one of the many stress balls people have given him and throw it through a fucking window.

Instead, he stays in bed for eighteen hours. Alain doesn’t stay the whole time, which is more than reasonable, god knows he shouldn’t have come over in the first place, but Luc lets him sulk.

Rene is the first person in Patrick’s life that he’s _wanted_ to touch, been eager to press skin against skin, felt something like carbonation roll through his veins when they’re around each other. It’s his first taste of _something_ , of that thing everyone else always talked about, and the moment he’s discovered it, it’s gone.

When he gets out of his bedroom, Luc is asleep on the couch. He jerks awake when Patrick stumbles his way to the kitchen and gets himself a glass of water.

“How are you feeling?” Luc asks, voice fuzzy with sleep but still sincerely worried. Concerned. That’s the word for it.

Patrick makes a bad decision.

“There’s a meeting this morning, right?” he asks, and glances at the clock. It’s barely 5 in the morning.

Luc sits up carefully. “Do you really-”

“I just can’t touch him,” Patrick says, and turns back to look at Luc. “I didn’t touch him for what, a month? A month and a half? I can keep doing that. It’s not such a big sacrifice. I’m good at not touching people.”

“This isn’t just about the crying, is it,” Luc says.

“It could be,” Patrick says.

“But it isn’t,” Luc says firmly. “It’s the touching, isn’t it? Which is _fine_ , Patrick. But you said you kissed-”

“And I loved it,” Patrick says, and has to set the glass down and walk away from it so he doesn’t throw it against the wall. “I think that was what normal people feel when they kiss, or touch, and I just want to touch him all the time and kiss him even more than that, but he _cried_ , Luc.”

Luc doesn’t reply immediately, which is good, it means he’s actually thinking about the question. “I think you should come to the meeting today,” he says simply. “Rene isn’t going to do anything about this because he thinks he did irreparable damage or something, so you should come to the meeting and talk to him.”

He can’t bring himself to say it, can’t admit it, but Luc knows anyway.

“I promise he still wants you,” Luc says simply, like it’s ridiculous to think it could be any other way. He sighs, and stands up, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. “Okay, I’m thinking donuts. You good with donuts? Because we should go get donuts.” He doesn’t even wait for Patrick to reply, just nods and starts stretching. “Right, donuts it is. Go shower, and then we’ll get donuts.”

Patrick showers.

They get donuts.

\---

Patrick is slow about getting to the Musain and the meeting, awkward in a way that leaves his heart fluttering painfully. Luc had given him a raised eyebrow and a _this is a terrible idea_ look, but Patrick’s a fucking adult and Luc can just deal with it, so he went ahead of Patrick. And the meeting’s been going for at least ten minutes, enough time that he’s at least ninety percent sure that Rene is already there.

Vivienne is watching him very, very carefully out of the corner of her eye while Patrick awkwardly loiters near the door in just the right spot that nobody in their corner’s meeting can actually see him. And Rene is definitely there, voice beautiful and painting idealistic nonsense through the air, all about the way things can be, the way things _should_ be, and Patrick has to take a deep breath.

Patrick wants to believe, he really does, but there’s something jagged and bitter inside of him that screams to stare Rene down and give him a list of facts and experiences that Patrick doesn’t actually have. Something that wants him to pin Rene to the wall and whisper _fool_ , dark and quiet and looking him straight in the eye. And his hand is clenched into a fist in his pants, listening to Rene.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Vivienne is waiting patiently in front of him. “They’re about to take their first coffee break,” she says simply, like she’s offering up some sort of peace offering.

And Patrick is _not_ a coward, he is many things but a coward is never one of them, so he walks in and hopes nobody realizes how long he was just standing awkwardly by the door.

Rene’s words immediately screech to a stop, mid-syllable, like even seeing Patrick has broken his tongue. Patrick tries to not feel a bit flattered by that, but fails. Luckily, the anxiety keeps him more than a little bit in control of any potential smugness.

He should greet his friends – because somehow, they’re all his friends now. He should say hello to Alain, or glare at Luc for motioning him forward. Instead, he ends up staring at Rene. The only good thing is that Rene is staring right back.

“How are you?” Patrick asks awkwardly. So, _so_ awkwardly.

But Rene jumps on it, quickly says, “I’m fine, I – everything’s okay, I don’t, I mean, I was going to go to the doctor but Vivienne said it’s just stress-”

Patrick winces.

“Not bad stress!” Rene shouts, words tripping over each other as he swiftly weaves through the tables to stand in front of the window with Patrick. “It’s the sort of stress where you worry a lot and then it’s good – it’s _so_ good, Patrick. Please.”

There’s something bright and desperate in Rene’s eyes, like he’s almost in physical pain. Patrick wants to tell him that everything is okay, and Patrick can admit to himself how horribly relieved he is that Rene is here, that Rene is the one moving towards him.

Patrick doesn’t know what Rene is looking for when he stares into Patrick’s eyes, but he must find it. He dares to reach forward, takes Patrick’s hand in his, quietly says, “If you’d let me

_and he knows this he knows this_

He stands in front of the window he’s scared but he’s not a coward no matter how desperately he wants to run but where would he go what does he have left his friends are dead his cause is useless he’s trapped like an animal in a cage all alone a failure a pathetic failure no matter how hard he tried no matter how firm his resolve and it’s going to crumble _he_ is going to break apart

But he sees him

Sees him rise

Finally really truly _sees him_

_He sees Grantaire_

And Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hand so tightly it could break bone because _they are_ not _going to die here_ and he has something to live for and fight for and fuck the cause, he grabs Grantaire and kicks over the nearest table, throws them both down behind it and tries to keep himself covering Grantaire, tries to keep him _safe_ , holds him tightly.

“Stay quiet,” Enjolras says, even though the guard already knows they’re there, but who knows what Grantaire would say? What he would do?

There’s a lot of noise on the other side of the table, and Enjolras doesn’t dare look. 

Grantaire tries to jerk upright, says, “What-”

Enjolras puts a hand over his mouth, keeps him pressed tightly against his chest, and quickly hisses out, “ _Stay down_.”

There’s shouts and names being called and mayhem on the other side of the table and Enjolras wants to look, but instead he tries to figure out how they could get out of here. The window has glass in it, but they could kick through it? And then what, climb down? It’s a terrible idea. They could run for the door, they could-

“Enjolras, it’s okay,” someone shouts, and Enjolras can’t believe it. He heard Jehan die. Oh god, he’s hallucinating. “R, stay down, I don’t – just stay down, stay silent for now. Vivienne, get everyone out before they hurt something. Enjolras?”

He presses his forehead against the back of Grantaire’s head, pressing his nose just lightly against the back of his neck, concentrating on hearing him breathe. Grantaire’s close to hyperventilating, it sounds like, which is understandable. “Thank you,” he tells Grantaire, even if he knows it’s too late. It’s too late for all of this, he didn’t see in time. Or maybe there was nothing to see until now, they missed so many chances until _this_ , this pointless death, trapped in a corner with no choice but dying with desperately false dignity or dying like the scared little boy he tried so hard to pretend he isn’t.

“Enjolras, it’s Jehan, it’s okay, you’re safe,” the phantom says. Enjolras doesn’t look.

Carefully, Grantaire presses his hand against Enjolras’ hand, the one across his mouth, and it’s easier than Enjolras could ever imagine to hold his hand, soft and certain, and Enjolras starts to shake. He tries not to, but he does, and what was an attempt at being one last barrier between Grantaire and the guard becomes some sort of nonsensical embrace, and he is not going to cry. He is _not_.

But Jehan carefully comes around the table, looking mostly like himself, but so deeply worried that it just makes everything even worse.

Jehan crouches next to him, and says, “You’re safe, Enjolras. It’s over. You’re okay.” He clears his throat. “How you doing, R?”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire says simply. “And so are you, Enjolras.” There’s something awkward about how he says it. “We’re both safe and we’re okay, and it’s over.”

And then Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’ hands, tight and firm and so amazingly reassuring, and fuck, _fuck_ , he starts crying.

He doesn’t know how it happens, but somehow he and Grantaire have completely changed positions, with Enjolras curled in his lap and clinging to his shirt, sobbing brokenly. Grantaire holds him tight. He has a hand buried in Enjolras’ hair, and keeps whispering, _It’s okay, you’re safe, it’s okay._

“Just keep holding him for a bit,” Jehan says quietly.

Grantaire nods, and says, “What’s-”

“Now isn’t the time,” Jehan says, something fiercely protective in his voice, and Jehan puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras tries to focus on him, tries to get control of himself, but he can’t. And he’s a coward, isn’t he, clinging to Grantaire like this.

“You died,” Enjolras tells Jehan. “We heard you die, Prouvaire.”

“I did,” Jehan says. Grantaire’s grip on him tightens, even as Enjolras loosens his grip on Grantaire’s shirt. Enjolras watches Jehan kneel on the floor next to them, patient and calm. “You’re not at the barricade. Nobody’s going to hurt you. It’s over. You’re safe, Enjolras. We’re all safe.”

Enjolras feels very cold. “We’re all dead.”

He remembers – a firing line, the loud crack of gunfire, trying to keep a hold of Grantaire’s hand as he fell, and Jehan grabs Enjolras’ head, pulls him sharply away from Grantaire and says, “Don’t, _don’t_ , stop right there, Enjolras. Don’t try to remember.”

“Is this the afterlife?” Enjolras asks.

“Kind of,” Jehan tells him, and lets go. Grantaire gets a hold of his shoulders, and when he tries to stand, Grantaire helps him, Jehan keeping a steady eye on him.

They’re in the Musain, that much is obvious, but it looks so different. Jehan looks different. Grantaire looks different. They’re obviously the same people, just… _different_.

“It’ll come back to him,” Jehan says quietly, to Grantaire, and Enjolras steps away to look at the café. 

There are carpets, and padded chairs, and no guns, no blood, nothing ripped apart by bullets and battle and Enjolras’ foolish belief that it would _work_ , blind optimism that got his friends killed one by one, and if he hadn’t seen them die he’d heard them, and Enjolras grabs a still-warm ceramic cup full of hot tea and throws it against the wall, and it doesn’t help. They died, and he failed, and it’s _his fault_ , his own ignorance, watching blood and death, and he _screams_ , grabs a wooden chair and smashes it against the wall, because there has to be _some_ wreckage, this isn’t right, this warm comfortable place where everything went wrong. It had turned into hell, it turned into a massacre, and Enjolras had proudly led them right into it.

He was naïve, he was disgustingly hopeful, he was desperately holding himself together and holding Grantaire’s hand because he offered, and Enjolras finally understood, and so did Grantaire, and that was one tiny moment, barely seconds of thinking, _he believes_ , and thinking, _I don’t deserve this_ , and holding hands, that was all he got, death and holding hands, and he tosses what’s left of the shattered chair across the room. The few pieces that had somehow managed to stay together as he slammed it against the wall over and over again break apart and fall to pieces on the floor.

Enjolras stands there, panting, and starts to cry again.

“I should be dead,” Enjolras says. He turns to see Jehan looking sympathetic but unsurprised, while Grantaire looks like he himself is going to start crying. Enjolras points at the floor, at the Musain, at _living_. “I should be _dead_ , Prouvaire, I shouldn’t – I don’t get to be alive.”

Jehan looks very, very confused.

Grantaire, on the other hand, takes a deep breath and stretches a hand out, towards Enjolras, open and welcoming. “We’ll figure this out,” he says, firm and confident and reassuring, like the Grantaire that Enjolras always suspected was hidden down deep inside of him somewhere. Even this close to tears, Grantaire seems strangely in control of himself.

He takes Grantaire’s hand, and uses the other to wipe at his eyes, because this is Grantaire. 

Carefully, Grantaire asks, “Patrick?”

Enjolras has no idea what he’s asking about, or who he’s asking for. He says, “I’m glad you’re with me, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s face falls into something crushed and broken for a moment, but he takes a long shuddering breath and nods to himself, like he just got an unwelcome answer to a question he didn’t need to ask. “We’ll figure this out,” Grantaire repeats.

For some reason, Enjolras feels like Grantaire is looking straight through him.

\---

Grantaire and Jehan sneak him out the back door of the Musain for some reason, and Enjolras nearly falls over when he steps outside at how _bizarre_ everything is, how very wrong it all is.

But then some part of his brain says, _no, here. Let me help. This is what this is, this is where you are._ It takes only a moment, and then cars are cars and people have phones and it’s perfectly normal for women to wear pants.

“You with us?” Jehan asks.

Enjolras runs a hand down his face, tries to shake off the strange sense of vertigo, and nods. “Yeah, I’m alright,” he says. The world seems strangely distant, and it makes the walk to Jehan’s small apartment feel like it takes no time at all.

“So this is what, a split personality?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras is sitting on the couch, staring out of the window at the Eiffel Tower. He knows what it is, he knows facts about it, could give directions based on its location, but it’s still seems like some alien entity someone surgically implanted into Paris. “This guy, Enjolras, he’s – what _is_ he?”

Jehan hesitates, but says, “He’s Patrick’s past life.”

“Patrick,” Enjolras mutters, and tries to think. The name pokes at his mind. _Patrick_. Grantaire asked him about Patrick, is – Enjolras is Patrick? Enjolras doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but maybe. Maybe. He turns to look at Jehan. “Past life?”

Jehan sighs, and gestures Grantaire over to the couch Enjolras is already sitting on. He sits awkwardly, and Enjolras has to fight the urge to touch him, to make sure he’s real or something. It’s ridiculous.

“My name isn’t actually Jean Prouvaire,” Jehan says. “Not technically, at least. I was born with a different name. When I was seventeen, a group of men backed me into a corner, and I – I don’t quite know what happened, but then I was Jean Prouvaire, and I have been ever since. I ran away from home because I couldn’t stand being called my other name, couldn’t stand being around people who didn’t _understand_.”

Enjolras can’t help but grab onto Grantaire’s hand again. He feels like a fool for it, but Grantaire’s an anchor.

“I don’t know how you died, Enjolras. I was already gone by then. But for some reason, I just sort of assumed that when everyone was together, all there at the Musain, that everyone would just _remember_ ,” Jehan says.

Enjolras thinks. He holds on to Grantaire’s hand and _thinks_ , back to the Musain – not his Musain, _this one_ , the welcoming den where he tries to remember back. It’s hard, but when Enjolras twists everything in his mind, it makes sense – Grantaire was the leader, and Enjolras was the cynic in the corner, full of a bitter rage that he couldn’t understand but oh, Enjolras _definitely_ does.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, that same hesitation to his name when it’s supposed to sound like Grantaire doesn’t want to let it slip between his lips, almost like it hurts to say.

Because Grantaire has no idea who Enjolras is.

It _hurts_ , and it’s – it’s no fault but his own, is it? It’s just the mark of a true overachiever, that he didn’t get around to falling in love until he was getting shot. And it hurts to know that right now, Grantaire doesn’t know who Enjolras is. He knows some part of him, some, god, Enjolras doesn’t even _know_ what this Patrick version of himself is like, but that’s who he wants. 

“I was someone else,” Enjolras says. There’s so much hope in Grantaire’s eyes, and it stabs into his heart, because Grantaire and hope don’t go together, and it’s hope for Enjolras to stop being Enjolras.

“You still are,” Grantaire says, like he thinks he can coax Patrick back out of Enjolras like Enjolras is just some blanket that got tossed over Patrick and all Grantaire has to do is pull it back off.

Grantaire doesn’t want him.

Enjolras shuts his eyes and tries to stay calm because Jehan couldn’t know, he already said that he didn’t know, and how could anyone? Grantaire himself might not even know.

“We wouldn’t want to remember,” Enjolras says. And Jehan looks _confused_ , like that never occurred to him. He lets go of Grantaire’s hand, leans forward on the couch to look Jehan straight in the eye. “We didn’t die nobly like you did, Jehan. The only one of us who died bravely was Grantaire. You, and Grantaire, and that’s all. I died _angry_ , at myself, at the guard, at humanity in general, and it’s not the sort of thing you want to remember. What did you think was going to happen if we remembered? We’d all laugh, have a reunion party? Swap stories about what it feels like to get shot?”

Jehan doesn’t say anything.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Enjolras says, and gestures over at Grantaire. “I’m supposed to be what’s his name, Patrick? I’m supposed to be Patrick, and I’m not supposed to – this is supposed to be our second chance, isn’t it? Isn’t that what reincarnation is about?”

“I don’t presume to speak for fate, or God, or whatever brought us back,” Jehan says. “But I don’t believe that we’re meant to be ignorant of our pasts. You’re supposed to know.”

“ _But I don’t want to know!_ ” Enjolras shouts at him, and he remembers more and more of Patrick by the second, glances over at Grantaire, who is _Rene_ , but he’s Grantaire. “I’m supposed to fall in love and figure out my life and get _past_ the rage, not remember the cause of it! I’m supposed to adapt and have the chance to grow up and not be angry about something that happened two hundred years ago, I would just – I’d just live quietly. The world doesn’t _need me_ , Jehan, it never needed me, even before I died. I was just fooling myself. There’s no point to Enjolras.”

“Yes there is,” Grantaire (or Rene, he supposes) says quietly. He glances over at Jehan. “I’m Grantaire?” Jehan nods.

“No you’re not,” Enjolras says. “You’re Rene. You’re all of the best things about Grantaire.”

That’s what Enjolras should think. He knows that. Rene is everything Enjolras was disgusted to see rotting away inside of Grantaire, a potential for greatness he thought would never be realized. But here it is, sincere and bright-eyed and sitting on the couch next to him.

Patrick was quickly falling in love with him.

Enjolras looks at Rene, and sees nothing but some sort of idealized caricature of Grantaire. He’s all of the things Enjolras thought he wanted, until the end. Until he really finally _saw him_.

“If I remember, why don’t you?” Enjolras asks.

Rene frowns. “What do you mean?”

There must’ve been something crucially different when they died, Enjolras decides. And if he finds that, if he _does that_ , Grantaire might come back to him.

Grantaire died before him. Probably less than a second, barely a heartbeat, but it could be the difference.

Rene sighs. “Listen, Enjolras. I barely understand what’s happening here, but I do know that you weren’t – aren’t – pointless. If he died bravely, he did it because you were there.”

It’s sweet, and kind, and Enjolras wants _Grantaire_ , not this sugar-coated Grantaire Lite who feels like a cardboard cutout with all the right words when Enjolras wants the wrong ones. He wants acid and blunt eloquence and bitterness. Grantaire is bitter, and Rene is _sweet_ , and the thought of tasting that is very wrong.

“You want Patrick, and I want Grantaire,” Enjolras tells Rene. Rene nods and doesn’t look even a little bit guilty, doesn’t try to reassure Enjolras that oh no, he’s just fine too.

Rene is sweet, but he obviously isn’t _that_ sweet. Or not with this subject, at least. “You already said yourself that you shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“I know. But I’m here, and I’m going to be selfish, because I want a chance with Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He swallows. “And I want Grantaire to have a chance with _Grantaire_. At the end, he was becoming-”

“Me,” Rene says. “He was becoming _me_ , and you were becoming Patrick.”

It’s probably true. Still, Enjolras shakes his head and stands. “Good luck to us both, then,” Enjolras says, and ignores Jehan’s protests when he walks out the door and into the alien yet familiar streets of Paris.

\---

When Enjolras gets back to Patrick’s apartment, he barely gets his keys out of his (Patrick’s) pockets before Luc – Courfeyrac – flings the door open and pulls him inside, arms wrapping around him immediately.

“You’re okay? Are you okay? Shit, I’ll-” Courfeyrac steps back, gives Enjolras enough space to breath, but still ends up patting at him, like he has to reassure himself that Enjolras is there. “What happened? Is there anything I can do to help? Do you need anything?”

Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac for a long moment. The last he saw of Courfeyrac, he was quickly dying on a wooden floor. This version of him is happy, with not a single militant thought in his head.

He also doesn’t remember what it’s like to be terrified to such a primal depth that you can’t think beyond trying to survive, and then dying afraid.

No, Courfeyrac shouldn’t wake up. Courfeyrac should definitely not wake up. He should stay Luc.

Enjolras grabs Luc by the shoulders and pulls him into a firm, rough hug, because Courfeyrac is alive, even if it’s in this little way. And Enjolras will _not_ cry, because Courfeyrac – _Luc_ – needs to think there’s nothing wrong, he needs to have absolutely no chance of remembering.

He does end up shaking, though. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Enjolras lets himself say. His voice is rough, shaking just as hard as the rest of him, but Courfeyrac hugs back, and it’s a good hug. It’s warm and reassuring.

“Hey, I’m fine, and so are you,” Courfeyrac says. “We don’t know what happened, but we decided normality was the way to go. Alain is camping out in my bedroom, though. Just in case you weren’t up to dealing with two people.”

Combeferre.

Combeferre’s here too.

Enjolras steps away, but still keeps a hold of Courfeyrac’s arm, towing him into Luc’s bedroom, and Combeferre is sitting on the bed. He looks tightly coiled, ready to spring forward at any moment, and the moment Enjolras walks through the door, he does. With Patrick, Alain was always the person he was okay with touching, and now he’s grateful for that. Combeferre hugs him like he’s keeping Enjolras from drifting away with an invisible current.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras watched him die, listened to him make a pained, stunned half-gasp before falling.

He should say he’s fine. He knows that.

“No,” Enjolras says instead, and it all comes back. They died. They all died, because Enjolras was a complete fool. He’d thought he was ready, he’d thought he had prepared for everything, thought that maybe, _maybe_ one or two of them would die.

He’s not sure what happens, only knows that the grief and guilt and _horror_ resurfaces like a slap in the face. Enjolras is crying again, and he can hear the frantic confusion in Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s words as they try to be soothing.

But Patrick wouldn’t be doing this.

He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, _refuses_ to think of Combeferre and Courfeyrac falling – no. No, he’s not doing that. He’s _not_.

Enjolras steps away and wipes at his eyes quickly, and there’s no way they could possibly believe him, but he still says, “I’m okay.” Enjolras doesn’t dare look at them. “I’m fine. I’m going to take a shower.”

Courfeyrac makes a protesting noise, but Enjolras is gone too quickly for him to hear what else follows. He can’t do this. He can’t face Courfeyrac and Combeferre and lie to their faces about who he is and how he’s feeling, can’t stop seeing them die and then remembering how he’d kept going, he’d _run_ , didn’t stop retreating until there was nowhere else to go and he was trapped, completely helpless.

Enjolras gets into the bathroom and shuts and locks the door, and strips out of his (Patrick’s) clothing as quickly as possible. He turns the shower on as hot as it gets and suddenly he can smell gunpowder, can feel the heat leaving his body, and he has to scramble into the shower and under the spray. He stares at the tile wall and tries not to remember.

He should’ve stayed dead. Enjolras doesn’t doubt it for a moment. He should’ve stayed _dead_ , should have done so many other things. They shouldn’t have died in the first place. He threw their lives away on some pathetic belief that he could change the world, that he could _inspire_ people.

But he did.

Enjolras desperately grabs onto the thought, the _fact_. He focuses on Grantaire. He sags against the wall, turns the shower’s temperature to something that doesn’t feel like he’s under a scalding waterfall. He thinks of Grantaire. He didn’t have to stand, didn’t have to believe, but he did. He let himself believe in that moment, even when it was all shot to hell, and he believed in the cause, and he believed in Enjolras, and they died together, but they died _together_.

He manages to actually clean up, then. He washes off the panic-driven sweat, and pretends he doesn’t imagine washing other things off as well. He pretends he isn’t washing ancient gunpowder out of his hair.

He had seconds with Grantaire, at the most. Still, those seconds somehow make the rest of it something he can survive with, because this, _this_ is his chance. Their chance. Nobody else needs to remember, nobody else would want to, but he knows this is their chance. Grantaire wasn’t in the battle, he was just there at the very end. There wouldn’t be any suffering or horror to remember.

Enjolras gets out of the shower and towels off, and doesn’t even think when he walks out of the bathroom naked.

Unsurprisingly, Patrick doesn’t like having bare skin. Patrick avoids it at all costs, and that’s not even starting on walking around naked. He speed walks right past his two completely stunned best friends. It’s a very short walk, thank god. Enjolras closes his bedroom door as quickly as possible, and curses himself for his stupidity, but it’ll all be fine. It will.

Patrick’s wardrobe is full of subdued, dark colors, with an occasional white or a very rare red. The red garments are shoved into the back corner, as if he’s ashamed to even own them. Enjolras shakes his head, thinks _coward_ , and then has to sit down for a moment when he remembers how much of a hypocrite he is. It’s inexcusable to call Patrick a coward over clothing choices when Enjolras only kept up his courage at the end because of Grantaire.

He dresses simply, and after a long moment of staring into the drawers and thinking much too hard about bravery in the face of wardrobe changes, he picks out a dark maroon shirt.

By the time he’s out of his bedroom, Combeferre and Courfeyrac look like they’re about ready to have an intervention for him.

“Patrick-” Combeferre begins, but Enjolras holds up a hand, and he cuts off.

He reminds himself that this isn’t Combeferre. It’s Alain.

“I’m not okay,” Enjolras tells them. “But I’m going to fix it. There’s nothing you can do to help, but the thought is appreciated. You are the truest friends anyone could ever ask for, and I’m so grateful for every moment I had – _have_ with you. I need to go speak with Rene, and then I’ll be back.”

“He’s involved in this too, isn’t he,” Courfeyrac says. “When you had the, uh. Shit. What are we calling that?”

“His episode,” Combeferre says. He makes air quotes around the words.

“Right. During your ‘episode’, you were grabbing on to him like your life depended on it. Is he alright?”

“That’s what I mean to find out,” Enjolras says.

\---

He leaves Rene a voice message to meet him at the first café Enjolras comes across. He spots the first sign attached to a place with food and picks that for their meeting. It’s barely 1 in the afternoon, and they’re still far from the end of the lunch rush. It’s loud, and crowded, full of angry people in a rush, and Enjolras remembers running desperately into the Musain, remembers what few survivors there were pushing through the doorway, trying to fight. Trying to survive. And Enjolras had failed them all.

“Jesus, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until he opens them to stare into Grantaire’s eyes. Rene’s eyes. There’s so much hope and confidence in him, so many things that would be easy to fall in love with. He sets a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere else. Do you want to go to the park, or just take a walk, or what?”

“Take me home,” Enjolras says. Rene goes very still, and after a moment, Enjolras realizes what that probably sounded like. “No, not like that. I meant to just get somewhere safe and private.”

“That makes a lot more sense,” Rene says, with a sense of self-depreciating humor that makes Enjolras grab onto his arm and think, _Grantaire_. But it’s still Rene, who is sweet and considerate and wraps a protective arm around his shoulders until they get onto less crowded streets. Even then, he still stays close.

Enjolras is so grateful it’s almost embarrassing.

“So,” Rene says, looking at the ground instead of at Enjolras. “From what I’ve come to understand, you are Patrick’s past life. And you died in a very violent way, with _my_ past life.” He dares to glance over. “Back then, were we-”

“No,” Enjolras says, and stuffs his hands into his pockets, because Rene is not Grantaire. “We should’ve been, but I – it was too late.”

Rene nods. “This happened during a war?” he asks carefully.

And Enjolras has to laugh, because otherwise he’ll start crying again. Either way, it’s not a pretty sound. It’s bitter and humorless and ends in a choked noise. “It had aspirations of being a war,” Enjolras says, and has to stop walking for a moment to get a hold of himself. Grantaire is here – or Rene is. He’ll do for now. “I tried to start a revolution. I tried to _change the world_. All I managed was getting my friends killed.”

Rene is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think they’d see it like that,” he says. “Jehan obviously doesn’t see it like that.”

“Jehan didn’t see how it ended,” Enjolras says, which isn’t fair. It’s completely unfair to Jehan, so he adds, “He was the bravest of us all.”

They walk into Grantaire’s building – Rene’s, this is Rene, not Grantaire – and it’s not a very nice one. His apartment’s on the third floor, and Enjolras doesn’t know what he expects. Probably paints and canvases and bottles, a complete mess, expects to see the home of someone who gave up on impressing guests long ago. Instead, it’s tidy to the point of unnerving, like nobody actually lives here.

Rene notices how stunned Enjolras looks, and sighs. “Cleaning is therapeutic. I’ve needed some therapy recently,” he says, which yes, makes sense. A terrible date with Patrick followed by Enjolras rising from the dead could definitely cause a cleaning binge. Rene shuts the door behind Enjolras and takes his shoes off, which Enjolras does too, since he refuses to be a bad house guest. He might be a bad everything else, but this at least he can do.

“You don’t paint?” Enjolras asks.

For some reason, Rene looks completely stunned. “I, um. I do digital art. And photography. I don’t really paint, it always – I used to, but there’s a weird push of emotions that kind of freak me out,” he says, and then smiles awkwardly. “I’m guessing that’s Grantaire?” Enjolras nods. “He wasn’t a happy guy.”

Rene doesn’t drink either, Enjolras remembers. He sighs, and sits down on Rene’s couch. “Grantaire has a lot of problems. Alcoholism, for one,” Enjolras says.

“Well, I have that too,” Rene says simply, which is definitely a surprise. “I’ve been sober for almost five years now.”

“That’s amazing,” Enjolras says.

And maybe that’s the biggest difference. Maybe, in the end, this is what Grantaire would be?

But Rene sits on the other end of the couch, and Enjolras looks right into his eyes, and no. A sober Grantaire would be even more stunningly brilliant, effortlessly eloquent to the point of unintentional poetry with every sentence, much like Rene when he really gets going, but he wasn’t a creature of hope. Not until the very end. Rene is Grantaire if he was sober, and a fool, just like Enjolras used to be.

“You look at me, and I know you’re looking deeper, trying to find him inside of me,” Rene says, and shifts to sit closer to Enjolras on the couch. “From what Jehan explained, you took over Patrick’s body because you relived your death, somehow. Or you felt something like it.” 

Enjolras nods. It’s close enough.

“But you and Grantaire died together,” Rene says, as if Enjolras could have forgotten. “ _Together._ If he didn’t wake up with you, he isn’t going to wake up any other time.”

“He will,” Enjolras says. He just has to figure out how. Enjolras knows it’s true. If he calls, if he asks in the right way, absolutely nothing would stop Grantaire coming to him.

“I fought very hard to become the man I am today,” Rene says, and his voice is starting to get rough, like he’s fighting the urge to shout. “If you expect me to just roll over and let your…your little-”

Enjolras lunges forward and grabs him by the collar of his shirt before he can get out whatever he was going to say after _little_ , because _fuck_ no. “Grantaire _died for me_ , you are _not_ going to insult him. I don’t care how mad you are. I don’t care how frustrated you are. I don’t care how much better you think you are than Grantaire – or how much worse I am compared to Patrick. Be as pissed off as you want, but _never_ demean him,” Enjolras bites out.

They died together. They died together being brave for each other and Enjolras doesn’t care whether or not Rene is Grantaire reincarnated, doesn’t care if it’s Grantaire’s face looking stunned right in front of him.

Enjolras releases him, and stands up. He wants to start pacing. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and steps away, moves towards the window and looks out on a Paris that is incredibly different. The Eiffel Tower. The smoothly paved streets. The way people have so much more freedom but seem as if they don’t even appreciate it, and don’t care about the people below them. They only care about themselves, and even then, they only care until it gets to be too much effort.

“People will always need change, and always be too scared to fight for it. There’s no point in even trying,” Enjolras tells Rene. It’s a beautiful view. At least the gardens, Enjolras knows, are the same. Some things, Paris will never allow to change. Clinging to royal gardens and trying to keep the _grandeur_ is one of them.

Rene says, “That’s one hell of a cynical viewpoint, for someone who tried to change the world.”

Enjolras knows it’s true and can’t even muster up the urge to be upset about it, or regret it, or do anything but feel completely _exhausted_.

What if he’s trapped here? What if he’s stuck like Jehan, dead yet alive, out of time and place and looking at his friends’ faces and seeing slivers of them in their new lives?

What if he’s wrong, and it’s nothing but Enjolras and Rene until one of them dies again?

Enjolras should’ve stayed dead.

But he _didn’t_. And if Enjolras has to be here, if he has to come back and survive, if he has to take this second chance, he’s going to _take it_. He shouldn’t be here, this shouldn’t have happened, but he’s going to face it head on no matter how fucking terrified he is.

He turns, and looks Rene straight in the eye, defiant and determined even though he feels like it’s all hopeless and he’s so stupid, this was all a mistake he will never be able to fix.

And Rene looks completely stunned for a moment, and stands.

Enjolras is going to say something, declare his intentions all over again, do _something_ , but Rene slowly sags to the floor looking completely helpless.

He looks at Enjolras like he’s impossible, like he’s a miracle, and breathes out, “Enjolras.”

But he says it right, says his name like it _means something_ , and it’s Grantaire in front of him. It’s Grantaire who looks ready to faint and looks terrified – and it’s reasonable. Fuck knows Enjolras was scared, he still is, and he almost trips over his own feet trying to get to Grantaire, and it _is_ Grantaire. There’s not a single shred of doubt, because of the way Grantaire’s wide eyes follow him and the way Grantaire says his name and the way he looks completely lost. It’s _Grantaire_ , and Enjolras doesn’t know how it happens but he’s holding him tightly, bent over and hugging his shoulders with Grantaire’s head pressed against his chest and it’s a horrible position, but _it’s Grantaire_.

“I knew you’d come back, I knew you would,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has Rene’s slightly shorter hair, but it’s close enough. The important thing is that he buries his fingers in Grantaire’s hair and feels him breathing, feels him shake, feels the stubborn weight of Grantaire’s hair. “Thank you.”

“You’re alive, you’re _alive_ ,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras lets himself fall to his knees so he can hold him, and look at him, and it’s Grantaire. He keeps repeating it, and Enjolras tries to think of something he could say to make it better, but what could he say?

“It’s over,” Enjolras says, but that doesn’t seem to be what Grantaire needs to hear. He still hasn’t cried. He’s just stunned and shaking and clinging. “It’s okay now. We’re safe, I promise, it’s all okay.”

“Did it happen?” Grantaire asks. “I didn’t – it was real. Wasn’t it? It.” He laughs frantically. “It definitely felt real, Enjolras, but. You’re alive. We’re alive.”

“Sort of,” Enjolras says, even though he probably shouldn’t.

Or perhaps he should, since Grantaire chokes out another laugh, although it’s much, much safer than the previous. “Of course there’s a sort of,” he says, and he tries to pull away, which Enjolras isn’t ready for. He just holds tighter, and Grantaire is patient with him. His grabbing at Enjolras has turned into a careful embrace. “It’s okay, Enjolras.”

“You’re not supposed to be reassuring me, that’s supposed to be my job,” Enjolras says.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, things he wanted to _do_ , but now that he actually has Grantaire back, Enjolras can’t remember them. Enjolras can’t think beyond the feeling of Grantaire’s hair softly tickling his cheek when he presses Grantaire’s forehead against his collarbone. Grantaire goes more than willingly, and lets out a small contented noise.

Absently, Enjolras realizes that Rene probably got a haircut before his date with Patrick.

And he has Grantaire now. He wanted Grantaire back just as desperately as Rene wanted Patrick, but really, they don’t belong here.

“Do I get to know what the _sort of_ alive means, or are you just going to hug me on the floor for eternity?” Grantaire asks. “Let that not be taken as an objection, just a question. I am definitely not objecting.”

Enjolras considers not telling him, but that’s not fair to any of them. All four of them.

He considers telling him _part_ of the truth. He could leave out Patrick. 

And if Grantaire decides he’d rather be Rene, what guarantee is there that he _could_ go back? Jehan certainly didn’t.

“You should know,” Enjolras says.

It would be so much easier if there weren’t the small differences between Grantaire and Rene. He’d never noticed how unhealthy Grantaire looked until he saw Rene’s golden health. The hair is shorter. The body is less muscular, and infinitely more controlled. Rene was fastidious with his personal grooming recently, to say the least, and it’s like seeing Grantaire drinking in his usual seat while wearing a tuxedo.

Grantaire pulls back, and this time, Enjolras lets him.

There was always something wrong when he looked into Rene’s eyes, but this, _this_ is Grantaire. He’s bitter intellect and acidic wit, something that feels dangerous to try and hold for more than a moment.

And Enjolras tells him. He tells him about Jehan, first. Enjolras moves on to Patrick after that, and the rest of their friends, and then he hesitates. Enjolras wants to just stop there, let Grantaire reach the obvious conclusions. He doesn’t want to have Rene anywhere near Grantaire’s thoughts.

But Grantaire quietly says, “Tell me about him.”

Enjolras doesn’t know as much as he should, doesn’t know enough to be certain Grantaire will really _know_ about Rene. Everything Enjolras has from personal experience is tainted with the endless frustration that Rene isn’t Grantaire, and everything Enjolras can really understand from those strange splinters of Patrick are skewed from his huge crush.

“His name is Rene. He’s a leader, and brilliant, and an _optimist_ , and he’s almost exactly what I wished you were, before. This is where he lives,” Enjolras says simply, and motions at the apartment. 

They’ve moved onto the couch, laying down with Grantaire in some position that’s half sprawled across Enjolras and half pressed tightly against the back of the couch. Enjolras is physically incapable of stopping his hand from combing through Grantaire’s too-short hair over and over again, and Grantaire doesn’t exactly seem like he wants him to make any effort to stop.

“What do you mean, ‘before’?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras knows he wants to ask other questions, but won’t. Enjolras is grateful. He’s not sure he could answer them.

“I didn’t see you, really,” Enjolras says. “I saw what you could be, and saw what you weren’t, and saw what you did, but I never looked at what you _are_. And I don’t – he’s this fucking _believer_ , Grantaire, he’s going to save the world from itself, it’s-”

“So he’s you, basically,” Grantaire says wryly. “Are you sure we didn’t swap bodies when we were reincarnated?”

Enjolras thinks of the _rage_ that Patrick can barely keep down half of the time, of the nightmares he pretends he doesn’t have, of how he feels guilty and scared and always, always angry. He thinks of Rene’s _I did_ , and how Rene knows his demons and fights constantly to conquer them.

“I’m sure,” Enjolras says quietly, and holds on to Grantaire tightly. He’s practically squished against Enjolras’ neck, but they don’t mind. Not in the least.

“There’s no point in asking why you wanted me back when you could have him, so I won’t,” Grantaire says, and before Enjolras can object, Grantaire puts a finger over Enjolras’ lips. “But I _will_ ask why you wanted me back. Why wake me up when you knew it was horrible for you?”

It’s a messy question, but a fair one. It’s terrifying, too. But it shouldn’t be. Grantaire must know, there’s no way he could possibly not know. Enjolras clears his throat, and Grantaire obligingly removes his finger. “I wanted a second chance,” he says. “I wanted to – we should’ve had more than two seconds to be in love, we should’ve been able to talk, or _something_ , but we didn’t get to. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to have time to, God, I don’t even know what. I just wanted _time_.”

“We do have a second chance,” Grantaire says simply. “We’re just not Enjolras and Grantaire.” He lifts his head to give Enjolras an amused look. “It’s an entire lifetime for a second chance. That’s not exactly something to whine about.”

“I’m not whining,” Enjolras says.

“Of course you aren’t,” Grantaire says, and leans back down. This time, when he’s tucked against Enjolras, his lips very, very lightly press against his neck. “You already know what I’m going to say.”

Enjolras doesn’t want to admit it, but he can feel Grantaire’s breath against his skin. “We’ve barely had an hour together,” Enjolras says quietly.

“Versus a lifetime,” Grantaire counters. “We don’t _belong here_ , Enjolras. Patrick and Rene do.”

“And how do you know we can even get them back?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course we can get them back,” Grantaire says. “Maybe even _happier_ versions of them, if we’re not kicking around in their heads.”

“We wouldn’t disappear,” Enjolras says. “We would still be _kicking around_ , we’d just be trapping ourselves.”

“Christ, you turned into a pessimist,” Grantaire says. “Are you really making me be the positive one here, Enjolras? I’m not made for rose petals. Did you feel trapped for the past however many years Patrick’s been alive? Did you feel _anything?_ No. You were busy being Patrick.”

“You just have to be right, don’t you,” Enjolras says. “And how exactly do you think you can pop them right back in?”

“Before that,” Grantaire says, and stops.

Enjolras wants to shift and look him in the eye, or pull Grantaire up to watch his expression. Instead, he says, “What happens before that?”

“I want to see Paris. I want to see our friends. I want to…god, how do I put this. I want to – I want two hours, three at the most, to just _be alive_ with you,” Grantaire says. “Would that be okay?”

“Of course it would,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire nods, and is quiet for a long moment before he adds, “We don’t have to do that right away, though.”

“No, we definitely don’t,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire moves, smiling softly, and Enjolras finds he isn’t as much of a coward as he thought.

\---

“This isn’t going to work,” Enjolras says.

“Yes it will, go get your coffee,” Grantaire says, and puts the _Rene_ envelope on the café’s small table.

“It was tea. Patrick doesn’t like coffee,” Enjolras says, and lets out a small sigh before putting the _Patrick_ envelope down.

“Oh my god, are you – they’re even stupider than we are, aren’t they?” Grantaire says, stunned.

“And yet, they didn’t have to die to get together,” Enjolras points out.

Grantaire shrugs, easily conceding the point.

Grantaire has no problem with having died. He died _happy_ , which still makes something soft and warm trickle through Enjolras every time he thinks about it. Grantaire died happy, and he died believing, and he died with Enjolras. Knowing that has done something to Enjolras. He’s still bitter, still disillusioned, but he had one person. He didn’t fail. He had Grantaire, and in those few beautiful, terrified moments, they had more than anyone else in the world.

Being reincarnated isn’t all bad, Enjolras supposes, and fetches himself some tea at the counter. _Euros_ , he can’t help but think grimly. The world is a very different place, and Patrick is welcome to it. 24 hours of it has been plenty.

When he gets back to their table, Grantaire has the Patrick envelope open and is reading the letter. Enjolras snatches it out of his hand the minute he’s in range. “We agreed-”

“What can I say, I’m a rebel,” Grantaire says, and snatches it right back. “You could’ve made it sound less like a to-do list, you know.”

“Patrick is me, and I am Patrick,” Enjolras says simply. “He’ll appreciate it.”

“If you say so,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras hasn’t seen what’s inside the Rene envelope. He put a short note inside of it, and Grantaire put a much longer note in the Patrick envelope, and Enjolras can’t think of anything else they need to do. Not really. Nothing beyond this, which Grantaire is _one hundred percent certain_ will work. Enjolras isn’t, but it seems as good a shot as any.

Grantaire puts the letter back into the envelope and leans back in his chair, drinking his coffee like it’s alcohol. He looks so completely _Grantaire_ in that moment that Enjolras has a fierce burst of _no_ , a sudden wave of conviction that they shouldn’t do this, they should just be Enjolras and Grantaire, no Patrick or Rene involved. Enjolras doesn’t doubt that they could find a way.

But Grantaire leans forward and smiles at Enjolras, bright and hopeful, and no, this is the right thing to do.

“You know, I’m happy for them,” Grantaire says simply. “They’re doing this right.”

“Kind of,” Enjolras says.

“Jesus, you’re such a fucking pessimist now,” Grantaire says, and reaches forward, holding his hand.

And it feels – 

_Fuck_ , no. No. Grantaire is still Grantaire, and Enjolras will _not_ leave him alone.

“Try and believe again, maybe,” Grantaire says. “At least believe in them. God knows they’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Enjolras thinks of Patrick, scared and angry and broken and bitter. He’s the worst of Enjolras.

But Rene is the best of Grantaire, and if Enjolras can love him at his worst, Rene can do the same.

“They’re going to be a fucking disaster,” Enjolras says, incredibly cheered by the idea of the two of them floundering around in everyday life together. “Oh god, can you imagine living together?” It’s sheer schadenfreude glee at the thought of stress-cleaning Rene and completely apathetic to organization Patrick trying to survive without murdering each other.

“Yes, I can,” Grantaire says softly.

There would be massive fights, but there would be warm beds and shared breakfasts and coming home to the man you love. It would be difficult, infuriating, and completely worth every single screaming match.

God, _every single part of him_ wants that. Every part there ever could be, past, present, or future. He aches for it.

He leans forward, and barely manages to whisper, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

There’s a not-quite-gasp, a hitch in already shaky breathing, and it’s some chaotic blend of fear and elation and anxiety closing the distance between their lips. They press together softly, it’s beautiful, gentle, perfect pressure

And Patrick never wants it to stop.

He couldn’t open his eyes even if he wanted to, even when Rene pulls away. His lips tingle, and he loosens his grip on Rene’s hand in favor of letting his fingers brush against the top of Rene’s hand.

“Patrick?” Rene asks.

He feels drained and on fire all at the same time, and opens his eyes slowly. Rene looks anxious, to the point that Patrick ends up smiling. It’s weak, but honest. “At least you aren’t crying this time,” Patrick says.

Patrick can’t name the emotion that crosses Rene’s face, just that it’s lightning-fast between shock, and relief, and determination, and Patrick doesn’t have time to see what else because Rene drags Patrick forward and kisses him fiercely. His tea falls and spills across the floor, and Patrick doesn’t give a fuck because Rene kisses like a wildfire and Patrick is ready to just climb into his lap and kiss him like they’re dying all over again.

Rene separates to breathe and say, “I thought I’d lost you, I thought-”

“You didn’t,” Patrick says firmly. “You never will. If it happens again, we come back again. It’s that simple.”

“That’s shockingly optimistic for you,” Rene says.

Patrick smiles at him, and has to kiss him. He _has to_ , there’s no way he could ever do anything else.

He can’t remember all of it. He can’t remember _most_ of it, really, and the things Patrick can remember make him almost grateful for it. Enjolras is – was? – not a pleasant person to be. He has a landfill full of issues to deal with. Patrick might be kind of crazy, and touch-sensitive, and have an obnoxiously cynical viewpoint of the world, but he would choose to be Patrick over Enjolras in a heartbeat.

“They left fan mail,” Rene points out.

“I don’t care,” Patrick says.

He doesn’t know how to word it. He feels like he’s lived his entire life with a boulder hanging around his neck, and it’s disappeared, and he could fly off from happiness. There’s no ever-present fury. It’s still there, still simmering, but it’s not all-consuming. It’s a bonfire instead of a whole fucking forest burning to the ground. He kisses Rene again, wraps his fingers around the base of Rene’s skull and feels him move as they drag their lips together.

Someone nearby clears their throat, and Patrick freezes, because he remembers they’re in a café, and this is _not_ an appropriate place to make out. He blushes bright red, humiliatingly scarlet, which just makes it _worse_. He’s so glad he doesn’t drink coffee because now there will never be another reason to ever come back here ever in his entire lifetime.

Rene, on the other hand, bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Patrick says, and Rene only laughs harder. “Oh my god, it is _not_ funny, you – shit, let’s get out of here, okay? Just take me home.”

Rene still can’t stop laughing, but he manages to subdue himself to snickering. He grabs the envelopes and stands, and Patrick is more than happy to follow his example. Tea is still spilled all over the floor, and the man behind the counter looks very unhappy with them, but that just makes Patrick blush _more_ and Rene start laughing again. “Okay, out the door, we’re leaving,” Rene manages to say, and hooks an arm around Patrick’s waist. “And what exactly are you going to tell Luc about being temporarily possessed by the spirit of your previous life?”

“I’ll say it was a waking night terror or something. I’ll figure it out,” Patrick says firmly. And he will.

Rene is still grinning, and gives him a doubting yet still amused glance. “You’d better start figuring fast, you don’t exactly live far from here,” he says.

Patrick frowns, and then clears his throat, because that’s fine. That’s absolutely fine.

“ _Oh_ ,” Rene breathes out. “Oh, you meant – _oh_. I am so okay with that if you actually meant what I think you meant. I think.”

“Oh thank fuck, I was going to die,” Patrick says.

Rene says, “Let’s not do that _quite_ yet. I don’t want to wait another two hundred years.”

And with that in mind, the walk back to Rene’s apartment doesn’t feel too long at all.

\---

 

It takes Patrick a good two weeks to be willing to open his envelope, because he really doesn’t want anything to do with Enjolras. But, Rene keeps giving him giving him an expectant look and refusing to open the _Rene_ envelope before Patrick opens his, even though Rene’s envelope is much, much thicker.

They’re sprawled on Rene’s bed when Patrick just groans and says, “ _Fine_ , give it to me.”

Rene has it in his hand with a puppy-like excitement barely three seconds later, and god, Patrick can’t deal with how ready to start jumping on the bed he looks.

“Don’t you try to be inspiring and someone people can believe in?” Patrick mutters, opening the envelope.

“Not right now I don’t,” Rene says. “What’s in it?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, and holds up a grand total of two things – one small slip of paper, and one two-page letter that’s written in a perfect cursive that definitely speaks of 1800s. He sighs at the sight. His life is stupidly complicated. He can appreciate how straightforward it is, though.

 _Patrick_ , it begins.

_I apologize for the complications you have to deal with in your life because of me. As you probably know by now, most of the nightmares are from me. The rage is, too. To be fair, you’d be angry too._

_A few notes for you:_

_Actually do something with your life. You’re studying philosophy and enjoy philosophy, and would enjoy your classes. Go to them. ~~Gra~~ Rene can encourage you._

_I didn’t know it, so you might not: Rene is a recovered alcoholic. Support him or I WILL find a way to make your life hell. Again._

_You underestimate yourself. I fucked up so deeply that it’s affecting my reincarnation, but I did something amazing. Even if it was terrible. You are much more than you think you are._

_I have no idea how you are 100% French, yet named Patrick. Disregard any advice your parents ever give you, they’re obviously idiots._

_Hug every one of your friends at least once a week and be grateful you have them. Each and every one of them is a miraculous act of God and deserves to know that. Since that’s unlikely, and probably awkward for you to say when you haven’t had to watch them all die, hugging will suffice._

_Take care of Jehan. I don’t know how he’ll react to all of this. He’s the bravest of us all._

_Be bold. Wear red._

_There’s probably a man somewhere out there who used to be Marius Pontmercy. I don’t know if he’ll ever show up, but keep an eye out for anyone clueless and in need and_ help him _. He’s a good man. Introduce him to Courfeyrac/Luc._

_Never ever ever ever EVER get in a fight and avoid violence at all costs I will probably pop back up and neither of us want that._

_I don’t quite know what might rouse Grantaire, but if he comes back and you don’t wake me up I will do something particularly nasty to you._

_In the event that you do end up in a fight or any sort of violence, remember that I will probably pop back up, and I do know what I’m doing. I have accepted the fact that I am incredibly traumatized. This means that if I wake up in a fight, I will almost definitely finish it, regardless of who it’s with. Be careful._

_Take care of Rene. I don’t know enough about him, but I know Grantaire, and Grantaire has many, many problems. Some of these undoubtedly carried over – if alcoholism did, who knows what else. Watch out for him._

_Love your friends._

_Love Rene._

_Love yourself._

_Love_ living.

_Regards,_

_Enjolras._  
 _d. 1832._

_P.S. No relevant medical history I can think of, I was relatively healthy, you’re also older than me now so good luck with aging, try to avoid tuberculosis._

Sometimes Patrick is so incredibly grateful that he will never actually talk to Enjolras, because he is so, so weird.

When he looks at the small slip of paper, it’s a scrawl, but the same quill-ready writing, and obviously from Grantaire.

_Dear Patrick…_

_You are brilliant, you are loved, you are beautiful, you are capable of more than you would ever believe, if anyone tells you otherwise they are a liar and you should let Rene punch them._

_DO NOT WAKE ENJOLRAS UP._

_\- R_

When he shows them to Rene, he makes an approving noise. “I like Grantaire,” Rene decides.

“You would. He sounds like an asshole to me,” Patrick says, and gives Rene an expectant look.

He opens the _Rene_ envelope, and what seems like dozens of photographs fall out. Two small papers fall out along with them, and as much as Patrick wants to sort through the pictures, Rene picks up the papers and reads them before handing them over to Patrick.

 _Rene,_ Enjolras’ handwriting begins.

_You are a good man. I can only imagine the things you struggle with daily, and I can do nothing but be amazed and humbled by all you’ve achieved. You already know my feelings on the Rene vs Grantaire debate (or lack thereof) but allow me to say that you should be proud of yourself, and I am proud of you._

_Take care of Patrick, he’s kind of messed up._

_\- Enjolras_

The second letter is definitely from Grantaire.

_New living me -_

_1\. I am very proud of you for being sober. If I wake up again, I make no promises I can keep that up, so try to avoid that._

_2\. I heard I made you cry when you kissed Patrick. For explanation: there was a lot of pining involved with Enjolras. Years of it. You should be grateful it was just crying._  
 _2a. You have it so good with Patrick you have no idea I will never forgive you if you fuck this up._  
 _2b. Seriously I will rise from the grave to strangle you if you hurt him I am not even joking._

_3\. You’re leading our friends. Don’t be stupid. When in doubt, ask Alain and Luc and Patrick. But mostly Alain and Luc. Which you already know, but I’ll repeat: ALAIN AND LUC KNOW BETTER THAN YOU EVER WILL._

_4\. Try painting again._

_\- Old dead you_

“I don’t even know what to do with that,” Rene says when Patrick is done reading it.

Neither does Patrick, so he just moves on to the pictures without comment.

The pictures are of varying quality, and Patrick can tell quickly enough that the quality changes with the time of day. Grantaire started learning photography, and he picked it up very quickly.

There are a lot of pictures.

The first is blurry and terrible, and the only reason they can make out what it is comes from the fact it’s a picture of the bed. It’s incredibly strange, almost queasy, to see a picture of his own face when it’s so different. He’s pretty sure it’s Enjolras drooling into a pillow, and it’s an incredibly horrible picture. It’s crooked and out of focus and makes Rene wince.

They quickly improve, though. There’s a series of three experimental pictures, where Grantaire is obviously figuring out the camera. One is the street outside of Rene’s bedroom window through the glass, another is the same street after Grantaire had the good sense to open the window, and a third is Grantaire starting to get a hold of focus.

Then there’s a hilarious selfie of Grantaire squinting into the camera’s lens. It’s followed by Grantaire taking a picture in the bathroom mirror.

And then Grantaire moves on to Enjolras.

The window is still open. It’s afternoon, and Enjolras is sprawled inelegantly in bed (“I _knew_ it,” Rene says) and Grantaire is definitely getting the hang of this photography thing. He frames it like a painting, straight on and focusing on lighting.

Patrick assumes Enjolras woke up after that, since the next picture is Enjolras scowling directly into the camera while he’s eating cereal.

“I have no idea why Grantaire decided to keep the terrible ones and then skip through the other pictures he must’ve taken when they got out of the apartment,” Patrick says.

“Oh, he’s showing off,” Rene says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, ‘I’m 200 years old and I’m still a better photographer than you’.” He pauses. “Grantaire really is kind of an asshole, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” Patrick says, and he has pictorial evidence, because there’s a picture of Enjolras staring open-mouthed at woman in shorts on a moped.

There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire out on a walk. There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire carefully eating sushi. There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire on the Eiffel Tower. There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire eating cotton candy. There are pictures of Enjolras shouting at someone on a raised platform, and the entire group had turned to look only at him.

 _Don’t wake him up again or you might be out of a job, cynic with PTSD or not – R_ is written on the back of that one.

The final picture is obviously posed, or planned, at least. They’re standing in front of the window and Enjolras looks terrified, grabbing on to Grantaire’s hand with both of his own. Grantaire has his eyes closed and looks like he’s in physical pain while he kisses Enjolras’ cheek. Enjolras looks like he can’t even feel it. He is rigid to the point of almost passing out and staring at the camera like it’s a firing squad.

On the back, Grantaire wrote, _E &R, d. 1832._

_Thanks for one day more._


End file.
